


In His Arms

by Soaring_Ren (Robin_Knight)



Series: Right and Wrong [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Cheating, Depression, Dubious Consent, Implied Sexual Content, Intoxication, M/M, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 09:29:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9065884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Knight/pseuds/Soaring_Ren
Summary: Keith blamed himself. Shiro left to form Voltron, but to choose the universe over Keith -?He felt rejected. He felt unloved. It was over.He found solace with Iverson.





	

# In His Arms

Keith downed his whiskey shot.

The brown liquid was strong and bitter; it burned a trail down his chest and into his stomach, where it sat with a strange and heavy sort of weight. There was a slight buzz, enough to make him feel something, but it did little to numb the pain or wake him to life. He clasped the glass between his bared fingers, until he gave a sigh and made a fresh order, and – as the tumbler was slid into his hands – he relished at the coldness and how it grounded him.

There was a low murmur about the bar, as various patrons chattered among themselves, and every voice merged into the next and threatened to overwhelm his senses. Keith hated the bar. The floor thrummed and vibrated with the beat of the music, while the lights flashed and moved with incredible speed, and the scents of liquor and foods provided a great deal of distraction. His mind – confused and strained – knew not what to focus upon or prioritise, instead everything merged together in a cacophony of sensations. Keith felt panicked.

He buried a hand into his hair. The top of the bar was sticky, enough that he could feel the sleeves of his red-and-white jacket catch on its surface, and he began to think back to Shiro, desperate to remember how the older man used to calm him. Shiro was his anchor, but now he had chosen to leave Keith – to leave their son – and all that was left were memories and conflicted emotions. He bit the inside of his lip, as breathing sped up and a cold sweat broke.

“You aren’t twenty-one yet,” called a voice.

Keith blinked away tears, as he looked up to see the intruder. Iverson gave a curt nod. The older man slid onto a barstool next to him, which gave a small hiss of air as the cushion compressed, and Keith felt the panic grow with his racing heart. The dark brown skin was quite attractive, but a far cry from the shade of Shiro, and even the older man’s build was so unlike his ex-lover, as he sat stockier and squarer than most men Keith knew. There were lines of age about his face, with a thick beard about his chin. He was different . . .

It would be easy to forget Shiro with him. There were no similarities he could see, not even in posture or expressions or even through his voice, and it brought tears to his eyes to think that it could be this difficult . . . that events would need to be so extreme . . . to forget Shiro for an instant, especially when Shiro had abandoned him with a heartbeat. Keith drew in a deep breath and ran the palms of his hands over his blue-grey eyes. Iverson smirked.

“Aren’t I? Funny, I can prove that I am,” said Keith.

“Where’d you get the fake ID, kid?”

“I know a guy that owes me a favour.” Keith reached his hands around his tumbler. “I’ve been selling parts and scraps, fixing up vehicles in my spare time . . . it was difficult to make ends meet until I worked out that I could get a better deal trading on favours.”

Iverson gave him a hard look. Those dark eyes narrowed and looked Keith up and down, until it was difficult to feel anything except self-conscious. He looked away, unable to deal with the sustained eye contact and prolonged silence, and took a deep swig of the whiskey sat before him. It provided some liquid courage, as he pursed his lips and tried to fight away intrusive thoughts about Shiro, as well as the shame at considering betraying his lover. Iverson appeared to sense his discomfort and asked with a curled lip:

“What kind of favours?”

Keith slammed the tumbler onto the counter. The sound was loud enough to catch the bartender’s gaze, who – with a look of concern, seeing Keith swaying slightly upon his stool – made to move closer until Keith raised a hand. He was known well enough in the bar that just one misunderstanding would likely result in a beating for Iverson, and the last thing he wanted was for harm to come to the other man. Keith took another swig of liquid.

“Fuck you, Iverson,” said Keith.

“I didn’t mean it like that, although a kid looking like you –”

“I fixed up a woman’s motorbike in exchange for some pipes to fix our plumbing,” said Keith. “I helped find parts for a boat, in exchange for the fake IDs, and I got a bunch of groceries in exchange for fixing some old lady’s fence. Dylan gets on really well with her, so she’s babysitting tonight in exchange for me insulating her attic.”

“Got to admit, I wondered what happened to you.” Iverson raised a hand to order a beer. “We get a few drop outs at the Garrison, but nothing so spectacular a train-wreck as you. All this over a teacher you knew for – what – a couple of years? Must be some lay.”

“He’s the father of my son. You want to show some respect?” Keith drank the rest of his whiskey and called for another with a trembling hand. “I – I thought he was dead . . . we all thought he was dead . . . you _said_ he was dead! I didn’t believe it at first, because there’s no way Shiro would make a rookie mistake, but then he didn’t come back and a year passed by and it was just me and Dylan . . . I had to face the truth. He was dead.”

Keith visibly jumped when the tumbler was placed before him. The bartender gave him a look of concern, asking whether he wanted to see ‘Sheila’, and Keith – knowing the code pretty well from listening to the women over the past year – shook his head and promised that all was okay. The fear was real, but the fear wasn’t of Iverson. He feared facing the truth. The truth was that Shiro left him, walking out in the middle of the night, and all Keith was left with were the horrible doubts and conflicting emotions. He was alone.

It was a dark realisation. Keith stared down into the brown liquid with a blurry gaze, unable to focus his sights to truly see what was before him, and yet none of that mattered. He knew that Shiro would rather ‘defend the planet’ than be with him; even if there were others willing to fight the fight and protect the people, Keith hadn’t been worth staying behind. The question lingered in his mind: was he a burden? Everyone left him in the end.

“I could have you arrested for breaking him out,” said Iverson.

“You have any proof I’m the culprit?”

“If I had any proof, you wouldn’t be sitting here,” admitted Iverson. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done, Keith? Shiro had _alien technology_ attached to his body; we have no idea if that technology was a threat to our ecosystem or people, just like we have no idea whether it would have killed him or hurt him in the long run. We could have helped him.”

“You _sedated_ him and tied him to a fucking bed.” Keith ran a hand over his face. “He was traumatised and trying to warn you, but you just tied him up like he had no basic human rights. You didn’t even _tell_ me he was back. I had a right to know that, Iverson.”

“You were his secret boyfriend. You’re not his next of kin, kid.”

There was a sudden silence between them. Keith struggled to focus, not with so many stimuli overwhelming his senses, and he grew dizzy and light-headed from the alcohol in his system, which began to burn his stomach and send stabs of pain through his abdomen. He turned watery eyes over to Iverson, who looked him up and down in an all too familiar manner. It wasn’t the same love or desire expressed by Shiro, but instead something predatory and possessive, and – for the first time in nearly two years – Keith felt wanted.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” said Keith.

“Yeah? Where is he now?”

Keith took another sip of his whiskey; he twirled the contents of the glass to create a whirlpool within the liquid. It hypnotised him, gave him something to focus upon, and yet his mind drifted and he felt that isolation deep in his gut. The bartender lingered around them, constantly asking Keith whether he was okay or needed a ride back, but Keith shrugged him off with the usual frustration. It was fake sincerity. No one cared about him . . . not really.

“He claims there’s a planned alien invasion,” muttered Keith.

“You’re kidding?” Iverson gave a huff of breath. “We did find alien technology where he landed, even found it inside his prosthetic arm, but we figured his ranting was stress-induced, because – let’s face it – it’s a stretch to think aliens want to invade Earth.”

“He -! Shiro -!” Keith shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “He – He said he wanted to stop them . . . it was important to defend the universe, more important than staying here, because -! If –if he didn’t stop them, everyone would die . . . even Dylan . . . he wanted to be noble and good, but that meant leaving me . . . leaving us. My parents . . . the Garrison . . . now Shiro? What the fuck is wrong with me? Why does everyone leave me?”

“He’ll be back. He’s got you. That’s reason enough.” There was a long sigh from Iverson. “I never knew my dad, you know. The bastard walked out before I was old enough to be independent, but old enough to remember him. I always wondered how you could walk out on a kid you’ve supposedly grown attached to, got a relationship with, like –”

“Like if they could spend so long with you and still leave you –”

“There had to be something wrong with _you_.”

Keith rubbed at his eyes. There was moisture on his fingers, while his lip trembled despite itself, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he wept in earnest. It was too familiar a sensation; most nights were spent biting into his pillow, desperate to hold back the choked sobs lest his son hear, so that he could avoid upsetting his son by his cries of pain. He would fall asleep to his tears, waking on wet fabric. He knew he was different to other people his age, different to other people, so perhaps he wasn’t enough for Shiro. He wasn’t enough.

“Dylan is starting to ask questions,” admitted Keith.

Iverson turned on his stool, where he leaned upon the bar. He faced Keith head on, with his knees touching upon Keith’s, and usually it would be enough to make the younger man back away with a jolt of discomfort, as the unexpected touch felt like ants under his skin. The alcohol numbed his discomfort. He sensed the lust from Iverson, just as he sensed this was someone who wanted him . . . someone who needed him, even if just for sex . . . Keith just wanted to have purpose and meaning, even if just for one night, so he faced him back. A hand came to rest on his thigh, which Keith let rest there with a flushed expression.

“Tell him the truth,” said Iverson.

“What? You want me to tell him I was knocked up by an instructor?” Keith swallowed hard. “That I believed Shiro when he said we’d be together forever? That when he left me the first time, I thought I might die from the rejection? That when I thought he was dead, I nearly tried to kill myself? I blamed myself. No, how about how Shiro fucking left me again . . . _again_.”

“If he’s telling the truth, he’s out there doing what he can to protect you.” Iverson slid his hand higher and squeezed. “He’s got a kid. He’s got you. I know most men would consider themselves lucky as hell to get a guy like you waiting at home. You’re a hot piece of ass.”

“You’re drunk. You wouldn’t want me if you weren’t.”

“You want to forget Shiro, right?”

Keith downed the tumbler of whiskey. It hit the spot, causing him to wince and shudder, and he realised that he just wanted a distraction from his pain. He wanted one night without crying himself to sleep, just like he wanted one day of not fighting away urges to hurt himself, and he wanted just one hour not terrified Shiro may have died for real. The thumb rubbed circles close to his groin, causing an arousal despite everything, and he knew that Shiro would hate him for sleeping with another person. It would be like . . . revenge.

He stood shakily to his feet, while Iverson stood quickly in turn. Those thick and callused fingers encircled his upper arms, holding firm enough to cause an iota of pain, and Keith – as he licked his lips and tasted salt-water – realised that he wanted the pain. He wanted to be hurt; he deserved to be punished, deserved to feel every last ounce of what was to take place, because he just needed to feel something. Anything. He just wanted to feel.

“Will it make things better?” Keith asked.

“It won’t make things worse.”

Iverson leaned down and pressed his lips to Keith. The kiss was intense and immediate, without the usual lead-up and gentle teasing that Keith enjoyed, and he disliked the way that Iverson fought for dominance, forcing his tongue into Keith’s mouth and exploring almost like he owned the younger man. He felt dominated. He felt merely a possession and something disposable, but it was for the best . . . he wanted no memories of Shiro, no associations of Shiro, and – for one night – it would be like Shiro never existed.

The older man pulled away with a gasp for breath, until his hands came behind Keith and grasped and moulded his buttocks with a painful gesture, and – as Keith looked with vague double vision about the bar – he saw a few acquaintances staring back. They could see him being objectified. They pitied him. He wanted to cry or scream or break, but instead he leaned up against Iverson and whispered into his ear a hissed:

“Your place or mine?”

* * *

Keith awoke with a start.

There was a great deal of light through large French windows; the view beyond was of a garden that seemed to thrive despite the arid climate, along with various pieces of furniture designed for conversation and rest, and – almost immediately – he realised that this was somewhere unfamiliar. He struggled to remember the previous night. The bedroom was unfamiliar, but he noticed various items like strewn clothes and lubricant and a video camera that – while rested on its side by the television – he prayed turned off.

He was sore. There was a great deal of pain in his behind, which never came from Shiro, and the sheets upon his skin weren’t scratchy or rough, but soft as silk or satin so that they slid over his body with every movement. There were bruises on his hips, along with a cut to his lip, and his chest and back itched with dried come and sweat. He vaguely remembered saying ‘yes’ when asked if he wanted this, followed by various screams of pleasure, and then –

Nothing.

Keith looked behind him to see Iverson sprawled on his back, with eight deep and parallel cuts down his chest made from his fingernails, while various love-bites littered his neck like someone had desperately sought to mark him as ‘owned’. It was also a stark reminder that Keith had wanted this and reciprocated this, to the extent that he had betrayed Shiro and broken their promise to one another to always be faithful. He could no longer claim that Shiro was his ‘first, last, and only’, as now Shiro was just a number. He betrayed his lover.

“I see your finally awake,” muttered Iverson.

The older man sat up against the headboard, where he rested a pillow behind him. He knew no shame and let the sheets entangle about his legs, which revealed an uncut member that was roughly twice the girth of Shiro’s, as well as erect from the inevitable morning wood. It was painful to look upon. Keith struggled to control his breathing, as he felt his heart pound loudly in his chest, and the inevitable panic began to seep into his system.

“You up for round two?” Iverson asked. “Or – well – five?”

Keith could no longer control the nausea.

He struggled to his feet, as he ran to the _en suite_. The pain in his behind screamed at him to stop, but the acid and bile in his throat begged him to carry on, and – unable to reach the toilet itself – he emptied the contents of his stomach into the sink. He hated the choking sensation, as well as the burning in his chest, and yet the worst part were the memories of the night before, as Keith was taken over and over. It was a betrayal. He betrayed Shiro, but for what -? All he had was an array of bruises and the need for the morning-after pill.

The vomit clung to the sink, as he pushed back his hair with a sweaty hand, and – with a few turns of the taps – watched as the undigested matter ran down the drain. He thought he perhaps saw traces of semen, which caused him to retch and heave afresh. There was a cold sweat over his forehead, while his skin was flushed red, and he felt weak enough to collapse onto his knees. The tile struck him enough to cause a new wave of pain.

There came a sound of footsteps. He looked to the side to see the bare feet of his naked one-night-stand, and – as he struggled to hold back his pain and humiliation – Iverson came and knelt down beside him, as he pressed one hand upon his shoulder. Keith didn’t deserve comfort. He knew that he was unwanted by Shiro, unwanted by most people, and now he had proven them right for leaving him, unable to stay chaste and faithful to his lover. Iverson squeezed hard upon his shoulder, before pulling Keith against his chest for an embrace.

“You did nothing wrong, kid. I shouldn’t have taken advantage.”

Keith said nothing. He simply wept.

 


End file.
